


Chamomile

by okapi



Series: Twelve Cups of Tea [12]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Genderswap, POV Sherlock Holmes, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In which Sherlock makes tea.</i> </p><p>Light h/c, domestic fem!Johnlock. POV Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chamomile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ARedRedRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARedRedRose/gifts).



> For the last story in the Tea series, I thought I would take it back to the first ([English Breakfast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1773190)) and do a light POV Sherlock. Sherlock's experiment is based on [this article](http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/1556-4029.12457/abstract). John's experience with chamomile tea is my own from my last stay in hospital. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has taken this tea journey with me!

The front door slammed.

“Fuck me!”

Sherlock checked her mobile.

_Temperature: -1⁰C_

_Precipitation: 100%, rain, sleet, snow, referred to by chipper weather forecaster as a ‘wintery mix’_

_Wind: 30 kph, with gusts of up to 45 kph_

_Tube delays: 67 minutes_

Grunts intermingled with the squishing of loafers on steps.

Sherlock glanced at the dry umbrella and the heavy coat hanging from hooks in the sitting room.

_Difference in forecast versus actual weather pattern: significant._

_Discussion: John Watson is wet, cold, and late._

_Conclusion: John Watson is…_

_…miserable._

“Hullo, love. How was your day?”

“Good,” replied Sherlock.

_Investigating the false-positive results with amylase testing of citrus fruits has proved sufficiently stimulating._

Sherlock observed John from the corner of her eye.

_Pale skin, predicted. Sodden hair, clothes, shoes, predicted. Shivering, predicted._

_Observation: John Watson’s shirt and trousers are ill-fitting and heavily creased. They are not the same clothing worn at her departure from 221B this morning. Supplemental outfit kept at surgery. Original clothing is in tied plastic bag, hanging from right hand, and smells of…_

_Sherlock inhaled._

_…human vomit and excrement._

_Misery confirmed._

“It is foul out there, and I’ve had a hellish day.” John dropped the plastic bag on the floor at the foot of the bedroom stairs.

_Customary salutation after an absence of more than six hours is a kiss._

_On forehead?_

_Cheek?_

_Or…reliable predictor of later amorous activity [.7 probability with a p value of <.01]…on the side of the neck?_

“I’m not going to give you a proper greeting, love, until I’ve disinfected myself and warmed up, inside and out.”

Sherlock grunted.           

_Disappointing._

John stepped into the kitchen. She frowned at the table and puffed out a breath of air. Then, with a wave of a hand, she turned and walked down the hall.

 _No comment on the eight pairs of citrus fruit (one bitten, one intact;_ C. limonum, C. aurantium, C. grandis, C. reticulate, C. unshiu, C. aurantifolia, Fortunella ovale, and C. madurensis _) nor the diagnostic instrument with black-stencilled lettering (ST BARTS GENETICS LABORATORY) on surreptitious loan from said department._

_Disappointing._

_John Watson is surely ignorant of the limitations of RSID-Saliva strip test when searching for traces of human saliva on citrus fruits._

Sharp squeak; the faint _whoosh_ of water through pipes.

_Bath._

“Bath.” John’s announcement was punctuated by the _creak_ of the toilet door shutting.

_Average duration of John Watson bath: 23 minutes, +/- 2 minutes. Time for the near scalding 40⁰C water temperature that John Watson favours to become an unacceptable (to her) 29⁰C. Allowance for an extra 3 minutes given her current body temperature and state of misery._

Sherlock returned her attention to the calamondin fruit and its interesting false-positive properties.

_Creak!_

Sherlock checked her mobile. Seventeen minutes.

_Aberration in the bathing pattern of John Watson._

Sherlock considered the possibilities, the forces and conditions that could drive her flatmate ( _Friend. Lover._ John.) from the comfort of her bath prematurely. She must be…

“Starved.” John reappeared, wrapped in her heaviest dressing gown. “And still cold,” she muttered. Sherlock tilted her head slightly, leaning into brush of John’s lips across her temple that never materialized.

_Sororal squeeze of the right bicep. Disappointing._

Bare feet on steps. Drawers. More drawers. Wardrobe. Sitting on bed. Standing on one foot, then the other. Sitting on bed. Socked feet on steps.

_Alteration in nightclothes habit of John Watson. Outlier._

Long-sleeved pyjamas ( _Christmas gift from Harry, never worn_ ) peeked out from John's dressing gown.

Percentage of recorded evenings in which John retired in sleeve-less white vest and pants: 87; percentage of recorded evenings in which John retired in dressing gown alone: 12.9 (probability of later amorous activity 1, sod the p-value!).

John brushed by Sherlock. She opened doors, cupboards and then refrigerator.

“Good, better, perfect. You eating, love?”

_Transport. Just transport._

“No, thank you.” _Polite. John likes polite. Leave, consent, permission._

Sherlock turned and made a gesture at the bitten fruit, which proved pointless as John was hunched over a tin of tomato soup.

“Alright. Tonight’s a night for comfort food. Nothing fancy.”

_Aberration. No insistence. No inquiry as to the time of Sherlock’s last meal or its composition. Also superfluous statement—“Nothing fancy”—as John Watson is, to Sherlock’s extensive knowledge, unable to produce any food that is in danger of being classified as ‘fancy’ by any epicurean standard, domestic or foreign._

“I want to get those clothes in the washer before they stink up the place,” said John. “Keep an eye on it, will you?” She pointed to the pot on the burner.

Sherlock grunted.

Steps down the stairs. Heavy door opening. Silence.

Sherlock rose from her stool and lowered the flame on the burner. She stirred the soup.

 _Scorched soup would compound John’s misery, and lead to a sharp—but temporary—decline in affection toward charged overseer (flatmate, partner, lover,_ me _)._

Faint mumbling of voices.

Sherlock flew back to the table.

Steps up the stairs. Aroma of sugar, butter, cinnamon…

“Scones! Mmm!” John deposited a towel-covered plate on the counter. “Fresh from the oven. Best part of today, so far.” John stretched and removed a small jar from the top shelf of the cupboard. “Now, let’s see.”

Sherlock closed her eyes. She went through her senses, one by one, closing them to anything but the cutting of the _Citrus grandis_ with a sterile blade and the aspiration of 100 microliters of juice from the deepest part of the fruit.

She closed her eyes to John’s puttering. She closed her ears to the rustling of wrappers and the opening and closing of drawers and John’s grunts as she adjusted the toaster oven. She closed her nose to the scent of…

_…tomatoes…curry….toasting bread and cheese…scones…_

_…just transport, transport…_

_BRRRAAAHHHWWWLLL!_

_Peristaltic squeeze of air and gasses triggered by..._

_…treacherous, treacherous transport!_

Sherlock sat still, not turning her head, but nevertheless felt the warmth of John’s smile.

She closed her nose to all scents and resumed her extractions.

When Sherlock had loaded both positive and negative controls in to RSID cassettes, she looked up.

A plate sat at the edge of the table.

Sherlock eyed the bowl of soup, triangle of toasted cheese sandwich, and scone suspiciously. Like Odysseus to a siren.

John was in her chair, plate in lap, masticating. Loudly.

“Yoo hoo! Girls!”

Sexagenarian footsteps on the stairs. John’s plate rattling onto the side table.

“Are you decent?”

“Yes.”

_Amusement in John’s voice. An indicator that indecent activity at a later moment might be welcome? Inconclusive._

“It’s so dreadfully cold! And you looked so pitiful when you came through the door this evening, poor Doctor Watson. Like a drowned rat! I brought you two of Gran’s quilts for tonight.”

_False. Sherlock had seen drowned rats on numerous occasions and had herself drowned rats on…three, no four…occasions. They bore no resemblance to John Watson._

“Thank you.”

“I brought two. In case you’ll be needing two.”

Sherlock felt the heat of two sets of eyes upon her. She did not turn her head.

_One. One. We need one quilt, John. Say, ‘One’ with a suggestive laugh. And then, to the sound of footsteps retreating down the stairs, curl an arm around my waist and whisper, ‘What do you say, Sherlock? To just one?’ Cool, chapped lips on my neck, followed by a warm wet tongue; downy skin at the nape of my neck being slowly, gently pinched between teeth; a hand snaking under my…_

“Um, yes, two. Two’s perfect.”

_Two is not perfect, John._

“And thank you for the scones. They’re delicious.”

“You’re very welcome, my Dear. Well, I’ll be going. And don’t worry about those clothes, I’ll take care of them. Stay warm.”

“You too.”

Dishes clattered into the sink.

John opened door to the tea cupboard and sighed.

Sherlock waited.

“I can’t be bothered.”

John closed the door.

_Aberration. Outlier. Never in Sherlock’s acquaintanceship with John Watson had she known the ex-Army doctor declare that she ‘could not bother’ with tea. John always bothered with tea. Bothering with tea defined John Watson. Not completely, of course, but…_

Sherlock made no outward motion, but mentally she draped a dark canvas over the entire table before her. _For later._

 _Now was not the time for subtlety._ Sherlock shifted to the far side of the table so she could observe John directly.

Far greater than that of bathing patterns or wardrobe considerations or salutations was Sherlock’s compilation of data on the tea-related behaviour of John Watson. She had constructed an elaborate equation, covering two whiteboards, which related tea selection, preparation, and drinking to John’s mood and behaviour.

Sherlock waited. She did not know what would happen next.

_Interesting._

John placed two flat hands on the counter and leaned forward, shoulders hunched. Then she opened the tea cupboard anew. She stood on her toes and reached an arm in, pushing aside tins and boxes. Then she dropped a box on the counter.

A light-blue box decorated with white flowers.

_Matricaria chamomilla._

John’s voice turned soft. Like when she said ‘My gorgeous, gorgeous girl.’

Sherlock listened.

“When I was in hospital, after…you know…I don’t know if it was an infection or something else…one night I was, suddenly, so cold. Blanket after blanket was piled on me. I remember actually engaging in a tug of war with a nurse because she started to remove the blankets. In reality, I was giving myself a fever. But, in my mind, I was still so very, very cold. Then someone brought me a cup of chamomile tea. And it was like…magic. I drank five, six cups. The blankets came off, and I slept without a nightmare, without ripping out a tube or line, for the first time in…” John turned. Whatever she saw in Sherlock’s eyes made her flush. “Sorry. Walk down amnesia lane. I’m going to call it a day, Sherlock. Don’t stay up all night. Eat something.”

Toilet door. Opening, closing, opening.

Socked feet on stairs.

Bedroom door. Closing.

Hand to mouth, hand to mouth. Spoon to mouth, spoon to mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes never left the box on the counter.

Sherlock Holmes did not make tea.

Sherlock Holmes did not make tea.

Sherlock Holmes did not make _herbal_ tea.

John was cold.

Still.

After bath and soup and donning ludicrous amounts of night-clothing.

_John. Was. Cold._

Sherlock put the kettle on.


End file.
